


Wicked Game

by I_Lovetherain (ilovetherain)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Kink/Cliche Challenge, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovetherain/pseuds/I_Lovetherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>somebody is playing a dangerous game with Ronald Speirs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** this, by no means, has anything to do with real people and it's solely inspired only by the characters as portrayed in the TV Show  
> **Warnings:** it's kinda smutty (but I'd dare to say erotic more than pornish), and it's unbeated (I didn't want to annoy further my lovely beta while she's busy with school)  
> **Note:** translation from the Italian original one I posted for the anon kink challenge at anonfic_ita on LJ. **Prompt: Speirs/character of your choice: stalking**.

You try to remember when it all began. At first, you think it's just your imagination, an unconscious desire to draw his attention, to gain his approval. You know it's wrong, so you try to not think about it. But his eyes... His eyes, usually so detached – _empty_, they have seemed to you sometimes – are almost always upon you, flat and shameless, and his lips are turned into a half-smile. But it's not a nice smile, no; it is the smile of the cat playing with the mouse before killing him. This makes you feel good and bad at the same time.  
In Bastogne, though, this is what helps you carrying on: the impression of those eyes and of that half-smile that, you now know, are only for you. In the brief moments of troubled sleep, you dream about him. He slips silently into your foxhole, behind you; he presses one hand over your mouth and the other on your crotch. You can't see him, in your dreams; he goes away before you can catch your breath. You wake up abruptly in your desert foxhole, with one hand over against your mouth and the other pushed against an erection so hard it hurts. You just wait for it to subside, shaking, because you never could...

But it's only in Rachamps that you start to believe it's not your imagination. He talks to you, he smiles to you, offers you his esteem and approval in a way you've never seen him doing with anybody else. And his eyes are always on you. Even in a room crowded with enlisted men and officials, you already know that, if you turn to him, he's looking at you with that predatory stare.

In Alsace you find out you two are sharing the same bedroom, and you also know this is not mere coincidence since he took care of accommodations personally. But you're too sick to care; the fever makes impossible for you to think rationally, the coughing bents you in two.  
The room has just one bed and rank imposes you to leave it to him, since he's your captain. But he looks at you as if you've lost your mind and pushes you to the bed. "You're sick," he says, laconic as usual.  
You don't even try to protest; your last defense gives away the very moment you touch the mattress, beaten by fever and exhaustion. You hear him barking something to the frighten old couple that takes you in for the night, then he covers you with extra blankets and what happens next, well, you still don't know if it's reality or the product of high fever. The strong, alcoholic fluid burning down your throat, a spoon gently pushed through your lips and his voice ordering you to eat, the sweet taste of apple and cinnamon, something cold on your forehead, whispered words, fingers brushing your cheek, a solid, substantial heat enveloping you, the smell of sweat mixed with soap, a strong and regular beating against your back.

When you wake up in the morning, you feel like you've slept for days; fever has gone and you feel you're getting stronger. He's sitting on the open window, one foot on the windowsill and the unfailing Lucky Strike hanging precariously between his lips. He smiles at you, nods and then goes away.  
And you remain alone with your thoughts, disoriented, numb and with too many questions you'll never ask. But when you lay your hand on the mattress, you can feel it: the warmness, and a scent you'd recognize among thousands.

There; maybe it is when everything started for real, when what you thought was just your fantasy became consistent and authentic. Because that moment you decided to play along, to hold his stare a bit longer, to fight your discomfort when he gets too close, to not grab whatever within reach and cover yourself when he enters the room while you're getting dressed.

On the opposite, there's a certain deliberation into your actions; even if a side of yours, the rational and decent side, knows it's immoral. But you quit thinking in terms of right or wrong, allowed or forbidden, moral or immoral. There's just this piercing longing growing stronger every day, every hour, heating your blood each time he looks at you. You live in the agonizing and dreadful wait of the moment he decides to finally close the distance that still takes you apart. From that moment onward, you know, there's no chance of coming back, no chance for redemption.

You don't see him entering the projection room of the magnificent hotel in Berchtesgaden – more than a HQ it looks like the place of a long, lazy mountain holiday – but you _feel_ his presence behind you.  
Your body stiffens and your heartbeat quickens; your attention evaporates and your senses concentrate on his breathing, on the clouds of smokes brushing your cheek, on his boot lazily stretched out on the chair beside you.  
It's only when you finally are ready to stand up and fly away, unable to endure the look you know is pointed on you, that he bends over, brings his lips to your ear and murmurs: "Interesting movie, Lieutenant Lipton?"  
His breath caresses your nape and that's enough to send a wave of lust straight to you groin. You swallow heavily while you nod and wonder what happened to the brave and quiet soldier who stoically endured the chill, the mortar shots, grenade explosions and the death of his friends.  
You know you can't stay there; few men are now throwing curious glances in your direction. You convince yourself that's just coincidence, they can't be taking what's going on. But you stand up anyway and exit the room, trying to be as much insubstantial as you can.  
The throbbing between your legs is almost unsustainable when you enter the showers on second floor; cold sweat is running down your spine.

You strip furiously of the uniform and, under the chilly water, finally start analyzing you weakness with rationality; you realize how much this game slipped out of your control and clouded your mind. You, an usually moderate man.  
The water offers a little relief to your confusion, but not to the arousal you tried hard to ignore for so long.  
God, you need it so much... Your fingers move lazily over your neck, your chest, skim over your nipples, already hardened by the cold water, until they are completely erect and tingling. Your hand slides lower.  
You start touching yourself, slowly, because now that you're so close, you want it to last as long as possible. You thrust softly into your fist, lazy movements of your hips, thumb stroking the tip of your cock; your breath becomes deeper, faster. And, in the end, a shadow darkens the cone of light coming from the outside, and you know he's finally here.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, without stopping touching yourself. He isn't smiling anymore; the full moon allows you to see his pupils, they are dark and dilated. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.  
_This is for you, Ron_, you think, _until you find the courage to come and get what's yours_.

You quicken the pace, you don't even try to bite your moans back, you want him to hear them, you want him to realize what he's doing to you. You feel the tension building up, spreading from your loins to your belly to your lower back and down to your thighs; you rest your forehead against the wall when a shattering orgasm, something you've never experienced in your whole life, breaks your legs and you find yourself keeling on the wet tiles, one hand supporting your weight while the other moves furiously as to milk every drop of something you've denied yourself for too long.  
You see flashes of lights, your head spins and when you open your eyes, he's gone.  
You sit on the tiled floor, exhausted, relieved but, at the same time, anxious with anticipation; because, you know, the game has just began.

 

***FIN***


End file.
